


nothing good happens past 2 a.m.

by jessalae



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Beast (The Magicians), Drunk Texting, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 03:28:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30049227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessalae/pseuds/jessalae
Summary: “Weather alerts… message from Team Snapchat… Julia texted you. So did someone named Kady. And— yep, so did Eliot.” Quentin canfeelthe sidelong glance his dad is giving him. “This isthatEliot, right? One L?”“Yeah,” Quentin says, remaining calm.“Well, he’s definitely been texting you.” His dad’s voice is the absolute platonic ideal ofNosy parent prodding their recalcitrant kid about his love life. “So maybe your crush isn’t as unrequited as you think.”
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 29
Kudos: 173





	nothing good happens past 2 a.m.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Sylph for betaing, Christa for being a title sounding board, and the participants of a certain group collab for putting up with me taking this idea and turning it into its own lil standalone fic.

Against all odds, Quentin is actually feeling — pretty fucking happy, as he carefully guides the rental car through the twists and turns of the North Cascades Highway. He’s definitely a little sunburnt, his calves are covered in mosquito bites, and a hot shower is going to feel fucking amazing after three days of quickly washing up in campground bathrooms. But it turns out that this is exactly what he needed, after the absolute hellscape that was finals week at Brakebills. Fresh air, sunshine. Mountain sunrises. Not a single Assyrian-to-English dictionary or silver ritual knife in sight. And spending all this time with his dad — having the _chance_ , the _opportunity_ , to spend this time, when a few months ago they hadn’t known if he’d even still be around in May—

Yeah. He’s pretty fucking happy.

“Highway five, junction in two miles,” his dad reads off a road sign. “Left exit, Curly Q.”

“Got it,” Quentin says, then jumps a little as the radio spits out a burst of static that resolves itself into some kind of bluegrass song. They must be getting back to civilization. As if on cue, his cell phone buzzes in the cupholder where it’s been stashed for several days, basically useless without any service.

Then it buzzes again.

And again.

“Someone’s popular,” his dad quips.

Quentin keeps his eyes on the road, even though every bone in his digital-native millennial body wants to know who the fuck is blowing up his phone. “Probably just three days of Duolingo reminders and a Memorial Day video from Team Snapchat.”

Again with perfect timing, the phone stops vibrating — but then starts up again, twice, three times, until it’s just kind of continually going off, nearly drowning out the fuzzy strains of a banjo.

Quentin merges left to exit. “Can you just see what’s going on for me?”

“Sure.” His dad picks up the vibrating phone, taps at the screen. “Ah, it says to enter your pattern?”

It’s a testament to how good Quentin is feeling that he manages to describe to his dad which dots to connect without getting frustrated and snatching the phone out of his hand. Finally, on the third try, his dad gets the phone unlocked.

“Okay. There are things happening on your Facebook. Someone liked a post you made. Oh, a few people did, actually. Do you want me to—”

“No, I’ll look at it later,” Quentin says. “Keep going?”

“Weather alerts… message from Team Snapchat… Julia texted you. So did someone named Kady. And— yep, so did Eliot.” Quentin can _feel_ the sidelong glance his dad is giving him. “This is _that_ Eliot, right? One L?”

“Yeah,” Quentin says, remaining calm.

“Well, he’s definitely been texting you.” His dad’s voice is the absolute platonic ideal of _Nosy parent prodding their recalcitrant kid about his love life_. “So maybe your crush isn’t as unrequited as you think.”

God, _fuck_ the entire Pabst Brewing company and all of their offerings, fuck the gas station that’d had twelve-packs on sale on their way out to the campsite, fuck Quentin’s stupid big mouth. It had taken five beers and one single innocent question (“So, anyone special in your life these days?”) to make him word vomit all over the fucking place about his friend, his _best_ friend, well yeah Julia’s still my best friend but this is— this is _different_. Who is the most remarkable, the most charismatic, the most _absolutely unfairly hot_ guy Quentin or probably anyone else on Earth has ever laid eyes on. Who knows Quentin exists, _obviously_ , they're _friends_ , but Quentin is so far off his romantic radar he might as well be on the fucking moon, which doesn’t stop him from crushing on him so hard he couldn’t possibly justify trying to date anyone else until he gets over it at least a little. Who will be graduating at the end of this coming year — and Quentin is trying _really hard_ not to freak out about the prospect of not being around him every day, an entire school year in advance, and is— not really succeeding well. So does that count as _special_?

“I told you, it’s not— it’s nothing.”

“Uh huh,” his dad says, sounding entirely unconvinced. “Forty-seven messages of nothing?”

Quentin’s stomach flips. “Forty-seven?”

“That’s what the thingy says.”

No wonder his phone had been going nuts, getting all of that at once. Quentin probably gets forty-seven texts a _month_ , and that’s on a good month. For Eliot to have texted him nearly fifty times in three days, that’s— something is weird. Something is _wrong_. Not that there’s much Quentin will be able to do about it from across the fucking country; their flight home won’t get them there until tomorrow afternoon, and even then it’s a trek from his dad’s place to the portal in the city— if it’s even _on_ during summer break— if Eliot’s even still _at_ Brakebills and not off passed out in a ditch somewhere because he was counting on Quentin to come rescue him— which is patently ridiculous, but—

“Curly Q,” his dad says sharply, and Quentin realizes the speedometer is creeping up towards 90 miles an hour. He takes his foot off the gas and lets them coast back down to a safer speed.

“Could you maybe read me a couple of the messages? I just want to make sure nothing’s wrong.”

“Sure, buddy.” A moment of quiet, and then: “Okay, this is from… two nights ago, it says? 2:07 AM. I don’t know if that’s Eastern or Pacific time—”

“ _Dad_ —”

“Right. _Hey Q. Miss you. Cottage ragers not the same without your cute ass sulking in the window seat._ See, he thinks your— that you’re cute.”

“Jesus, it’s a turn of phrase. He talks like that with everyone.” Quentin rolls his shoulders, tries to make his hands grip the wheel a little less tightly.

“Okay, well, that was the first three. Should I keep going?”

Whatever the crisis was, it apparently hadn’t happened yet at that point. “A few more, maybe.”

His dad clears his throat and re-settles in the passenger seat. “ _Miss you. Wait—_ f word— _I said that already. Mean it though. Hope you’re having fun with your daddy and the fishies. Just don’t forget who your real daddy is_.” His tone goes up quizzically at the end of the last message, although Quentin is absolutely sure Eliot didn’t end _that_ sentence with a question mark. “What—?”

“Don’t worry about it. Inside joke.”

“Okay,” his dad says warily. “Then it says 3:47 AM, and then— _oh_.” He clears his throat again. “Just going to scroll right on past that.”

“Past what?” His dad is silent. “Past _what_ , dad?”

“A picture,” his dad says in a strangled tone. “A very _personal_ picture.”

It takes Quentin a second to figure out what that means — what, did Eliot send him, like, a picture of his social security number by accident? But when it hits him—

When it hits him—

“Oh god,” he says, looking with horror over at his phone. “Give me that—”

“Q, driving!”

Quentin gets his eyes back on the road, but flails out with one hand, trying to snatch the phone back. “Put it down, that’s— are you fucking with me? You’re fucking with me, aren’t you, there’s no photo, god—”

“I’m not,” his dad says, and now amusement is creeping through the shock in his voice. “I wouldn’t do that to you, Curly Q, not the way you feel about this guy—”

“ _Dad_ —”

“It’s just the one picture, which I am _not_ looking at,” his dad interrupts, “then it’s back to messages— _Oh_ f-word _that wasn’t supposed to go to you,_ f-word, lots more f-words—”

Quentin thinks his heart is going to actually explode, it’s beating so erratically. “So the rest is probably just apologizing, I’ll look at it later, put it _down_.”

“ _Bet you like what you see though—_ ”

“If you read one more word I will drive this car off a cliff,” Quentin yells, desperate, and thank _fuck_ his dad listens to him, even if he does chuckle as he sets Quentin’s phone back in the cupholder.

“ _Well_ ,” he says emphatically. “That’s definitely more information than I needed about your love life.”

“It’s _not_ my _love life_ ,” Quentin says through gritted teeth. “Jesus. Can we talk about _literally anything else_. Tell me about airplanes. I want to hear about airplanes.”

“Well, these new little drone contraptions are really getting popular, for some reason,” his dad says, always happy to launch into a monologue about his hobbies. Like father, like son, Quentin supposes.

Gradually his heart rate returns to pretty much normal, as his dad rambles cheerfully on about balsa wood and international model competitions. Quentin tries, he _really_ does, to actually _listen_ to what he’s saying, take in the information and understand it. But even at the best of times, he’s just not that into model planes, and this is far, _far_ from the best of times. Eliot texted him _forty-seven times_ , and one of those texts was a goddamn _accidental dick pic_ followed by a few apologies but then _flirting_. And it’s gonna be another 82 miles until they reach the hotel and Quentin can read the other thirty-odd messages and figure out what the fuck is actually going on. This is _unbearable_.

He makes it two exits before he decides he can’t wait that long. He just can’t. He hits his turn signal and merges carefully over. “I wanna put some more gas in the car.”

“Right,” his dad says, obviously not buying it for a second. Not that Quentin needs him to buy it, since the absolute most embarrassing thing that could possibly happen has, in fact, already happened. Now he just needs— a second to regroup. 

Quentin’s normal MO is to spend as little time as humanly possible in gas station bathrooms, but he finds a stall and does every cleaning charm he’s been taught on the toilet seat, twice, before he sits down fully clothed. His texts are still open where his dad left off reading, and he has a sickening moment of indecision before he caves to his baser instincts and scrolls up. Not _just_ to the picture, which he whisks by as quickly as he can, but all the way to the beginning of what Eliot had sent this weekend.

_**2:07 AM**_  
_hey q_  
_miss u_  
_cottage ragers not th same without yr cute ass sulking in the window seat_

_**2:11 AM**_  
_miss u!!!!_  
_wait fuck i said that already_  
_mean it tho_  
_hope ur having fun w your daaddy and the fishies_  
_just dont forget who yr REAL daddy is_ 😉😘

Quentin takes a deep breath. He knows what comes next. He should— he should scroll past as quickly as he can. He should fucking _delete this text thread_ without reading it, that would only be the _polite_ thing to do. 

He also knows there is absolutely not a fucking chance he’s going to be _polite_ in this situation. He tries to be a good person — mostly — but there are just some things that are impossible. Actually, entirely impossible. 

He slides his thumb slowly up the screen, sees the grey text reading _3:47 AM_ , and—

“Oh _fuck_ ,” he says, way louder than he means to.

Eliot’s dick is _incredible_. It’s _huge_ — Quentin knows how big Eliot’s hands are, and his cock still looks absolutely enormous even with those long fingers wrapped around it. The lighting in the photo is a little dim, but he can still make out the sprawl of Eliot’s mile-long legs out of focus in the background. His hand curves casually around his shaft, the pad of his thumb barely touching the flushed head. It’s a fucking A+ dick pic, perfectly framed to make Quentin imagine Eliot’s hand sliding up his length, pausing to thumb over the head, then stroking back down — slow, teasing himself, knowing the person on the other end of the message has got to be getting just as turned on as Eliot is, staring at it, _drooling_ —

A better man than Quentin would delete the photo and then text Eliot to reassure him it was gone and they’re all good, just friends, no big deal. A _slightly_ better man than Quentin might not delete the photo, but would bury it somewhere in folders on folders on folders, avoid looking at it except in the direst of porn emergencies, maybe.

But because Quentin is Quentin, he is about thirty seconds away from undoing his pants and frantically jerking off to a picture he’s not even supposed to have of his friend’s magnificent cock.

He keeps his shit together, _barely_ , although his dick is definitely thickening up in his jeans. He reminds himself that the remaining dozens of messages will probably take care of that problem real quick. It’s gotta be difficult to maintain an erection when your best friend friend-dumps you over text.

_**3:48 AM**_  
_OH FUCK_  
_THAT WASNT SUPOSED TO GO TO YOU FUCK_  
_fuck_  
_fuck fuck fuckkkkkkk_  


Quentin allows himself a moment — one single, solitary moment — to wonder who the picture _was_ supposed to go to. Who else is even on campus right now? Was it someone Eliot’s fucked before, and he was trying for a second opportunity, or someone new? Someone Quentin knows? A stranger, someone from Grindr?

All right, moment over. Back to getting friend-dumped. He continues reading.

_**3:51 AM**_  
_bet u like what u see tho_  


_**3:55 AM**_  
_lets stop lying to ourselves quentin_  
_we both kno you want to get on this dick as bad as i wanna get u on it_  
_fuck i am SO drunk_  
_but fuckit_  
_lets do this_  
_I WAN TO DUCK YOU_  


The neat rows of letters seem to swim in Quentin’s vision. He scrolls up a little — not all the way, not far enough to see The Picture — and rereads the section again. _Lying to ourselves. As bad as I wanna get you on it. I want to fuck you._

What the _fuck?_

_**3:56 AM**_  
_been wanting to for like a LONGASS TIM_  
_i mean DUCK not DUCK_  
_duck_  
_Jesus ducking christ_  
_F U C K I WANT TO FUCK YOU FOR DUCK’S SAKE_  
_PHONE STOP TRING TO SAVE ME FRM MYSELF_  
_**3:57 AM**_  
_you know what the fck i mean thouh_  
_u KNOW_  
_how fuckin hot i am for you_  
_sitting yhere being alll cute with your hair eyes ass hands miuth_  
_the things i wantto do to you_  
_wiuld make you f uckin blush all over that pretty lil face_  
_and im GOOD in bed_  
_**3:58 AM**_  
_vERY fucking good_  
_you wiuld love itt_  
_id make sure you loved ut_  
_show you the godddamn stars be yr one man gay awakening_  
_cant lossibly write out everythin here that i wanna do_  
_spelling to bad_  
_so jst TRY me CIKDWATER_  
_**3:59 AM**_  
_TEXT ME BACK YOU MOYERFUCKER_

_**4:11 AM**_  
_i kno you dont really want to probably_  
_i just have a VIVID imagibation_  
_pleas consider thi an opwn invitation shoukd you ever decide to try playibg for the other team_  
_but since u wont no worries_  
_i’ll just jerk off b y myself as USUAL_  


_**2:16 PM**_  
_Holy fuck, Q, I am so ducking sorry about all this. My kingdom for an UNSEND button. I promise I don’t make a habit of sending unsolicited dick pics, nor of sexting my friends who I know are not interested (and who I now remember, in the harsh light of day, have no cell phone service at the moment). I understand if this makes things awkward between us. If you need a break from me for a while, I completely get it. I just really hope you don’t need a break from me permanently… but if you do, I guess I get that too._

That last, longest message was sent yesterday afternoon and since then Eliot hasn’t sent him anything. No further apologies, no questions, no _How’s your fishing trip going? Missing you!_

Quentin rereads the thread again. Then again. His heart is in his throat, his ears are ringing. This makes— no sense. This could have all just been the alcohol talking. That seems likely, actually: Eliot was drunk and horny and lonely, he would have said all the same things to whoever he happened to text. That seems— reasonable. Logical.

But.

The door to the bathroom creaks open. “Curly Q? You all right?”

“Yeah,” Quentin squeaks.

“Car’s good to go. We should get back on the road soon.”

“Yeah,” Quentin says again. He stares down at his phone, his stomach churning. “I’ll be out in a sec.”

If everything Eliot said had just been the alcohol talking… wouldn’t he have said that, in his last message? _I didn’t mean anything I said above. I only like you as a friend. You’re not_ that _cute._

He hadn’t said any of that. He hadn’t tried to walk anything back, not _been wanting to for a longass time_ or _you know how fucking hot I am for you_ or any of it. Not _I’m very fucking good in bed_. Not _please consider this an open invitation_.

Quentin’s face feels like it’s on fire. He presses the heel of his hand over the bulge in the front of his jeans, shudders a little.

There are like a million things he could say in response to all this — a million ways to reassure Eliot that it’s not awkward, he doesn’t need a break. He could spend all day sitting here in this fucking bathroom stall, trying to compose the perfect message, tearing his hair out about it. He could spend _years_ , probably, and still not say everything he wants to say. But he’s been feeling pretty fucking happy, buoyed by a few days of peace and sunshine and calm, and he doesn’t really feel like ruining his good mood by putting that kind of effort in — not when there’s a much, much simpler way to get his point across.

His dad’s already sitting in the driver’s seat when he emerges a few minutes later, so Quentin climbs into the passenger seat. Every muscle in his body feels tight, tense. His phone is burning a hole in his pocket. He tries to focus on the fuzzy strains of the classic rock station his dad has managed to find on the radio.

The clock claims it’s only two minutes later, although it feels like several decades, when his phone buzzes and he nearly sprains something scrambling to get it out of his pocket. His dad gives him a sidelong look, but says nothing, just continues tunelessly humming along to “More Than A Feeling”.

Quentin squashes himself back against the door of the car so the screen will definitely only be visible to him, and reads:

**_11:09 AM_**  
👀👀👀  
_I have to admit, this is a much more positive response than I was expecting. You’re not drunk right now, are you?_

Some of the bone-breaking tension Quentin’s been holding eases out of his muscles. Okay. This is good. This is an opening. _it’s 11 in the morning here, so no_ , he types.

**_11:10 AM_**  
_Hey, no judgement. Day drinking is a noble pursuit._  
_I’m glad you’re not, though_  
_Where are you?_

Quentin drums his fingers on his thigh, considering how to answer. Maybe it’ll come across as like— hot, or romantic, that he’s on the road and he couldn’t stand to wait a couple more hours to respond? Maybe. _I sent you a dick pic from a gas station bathroom_ is kind of a hard sell, though, as far as romance goes. He decides to focus on the future rather than the past. _we’ll be at our hotel in 2hrs ish, our flight tmrw is at fucking 6 in the morning. back in nj around 1pm_

**_11:12 AM_**  
_Are you coming back to campus?_

Needy or cute, will this be needy or cute… fuck it. _do you want me to come back to campus?_

The little dot-dot-dot icon appears, stays, disappears. Appears again. Disappears again. Quentin thinks he might chew his own lip off, but he can’t stop biting it, too caught up wondering what Eliot’s thinking. He probably pushed things too far, with that last text. He’s too clingy, needy, emotional — he shouldn’t have made Eliot _say_ that he wants Quentin, not sober, not this early. Fuck. _Fuck._

Then his phone buzzes again, and his eyes widen as the picture Eliot sent loads.

**_11:16 AM_**  
_I don’t know, Quentin. You tell me._

The lighting is brighter in this picture than the one from the other night. Eliot must have been fucking— levitating his phone, or something, to get this angle: a bird’s eye view of his naked body, splayed out over soft grey sheets. His stomach is lean and gorgeous, his biceps are toned, he’s got beautiful dark hair across his pecs and below his belly button… but Quentin’s eyes are immediately and inexorably drawn to that _dick_ , hard and flushed and absolutely fucking massive. Eliot’s hand is resting lightly on his thigh, his fingers curled under his shaft, teasing his balls but not actively touching himself. Just _waiting_.

Presumably, waiting for Quentin to get there.

_i’ll text you again from the hotel,_ he types hurriedly, then closes his message app and resolves not to open it again until he’s got some actual privacy. It’s getting warm in the car, he doesn’t really want to sit with this hoodie over his lap for too much longer, and if he keeps looking at Eliot’s texts his dick is never going to calm down.

Clearly, some benevolent force in the universe is on Quentin’s side today, because when they reach their hotel his dad discovers that the Museum of Flight is literally just down the street. Not only that, but he actually _volunteers_ to go check it out without Quentin, as long as Quentin lets him use the shower first.

An hour or so later, freshly showered and dressed in clothes that don’t reek of bug spray, Quentin flops onto his pull-out sofa bed and allows himself to pick up his phone, which has been charging safely out of sight.

_settled in now_ , he types. _got the room to myself for a while…_

The response is almost immediate: 

**_2:34 PM_**  
_Can I call you?_

Quentin types back a _yeah_ , his heart hammering in his chest. This is— good, right? Probably. Or possibly Eliot thinks it’d be kinder to let him down over the phone than via text, he’s old-fashioned like that. Which is fine, it’s all fine, even if they don’t end up _doing_ anything it’s, it’s not that embarrassing because Eliot admitted he wants him _too_. So it’s at least like — mutually assured embarrassment. So. The worst that can happen is Eliot says _no thanks, actually_ and then they never ever speak of this again, which is okay because they’ll only be at school together for one more year and who even knows if Eliot will have time for him between his thesis and job searching and—

His phone is buzzing. His phone is buzzing, Eliot’s name is lighting up the screen. He tries to will his hand to stop shaking as he answers it.

“Hey—” _Fuck_ , his voice is not normally that squeaky, try that again— “Hey, El.” Good. Friendly. Casual.

“Hey, Q,” Eliot says, equally casual. “What’s the earliest you can be back here? Just out of curiosity.”

Quentin laughs. “Uh, I think like, late tomorrow afternoon?”

“Perfect.” Eliot’s voice is smooth, low — _seductive_ — Quentin’s heard him use this kind of tone on a dozen people while bargaining for everything from homework answers to handjobs. It’s always made him prickle with jealousy, but also with a little bit of condescending pity, because to him it’s always so clearly _fake_. An award-winning performance from The Hedonist Known As Eliot Waugh, but a performance nonetheless. The tone Eliot’s using now, though, is ever so slightly different. There’s a depth to it, under the usual purring satisfaction, that says _I’m not just getting something I want — I’m getting something I’ve been_ longing _for._

Or maybe Quentin’s crazy and they just have a weird cell phone connection and that’s why it sounds different. That seems like an important thing to figure out.

“We should, um,” he says hurriedly, the words spilling directly out of the pool of anxiety simmering in his chest, “we should talk? About what this— is. I think.”

Eliot pauses for a moment. “I guess we should,” he says softly.

“I want to be friends,” Quentin blurts out. “At a minimum, I mean. Like. If we can’t do this without— losing that, I don’t want it.” He’d rehearsed this little speech for the last hour of the drive, but he hadn’t been planning on giving it until sometime tomorrow or the next day — he’d have had a whole plane ride to workshop it — so it’s a little rough around the edges still. Hopefully he can get across what he means. “That’s— it’s really important to me. You. And being your friend.”

Eliot’s silent for a moment again, launching Quentin’s blood pressure up into the stratosphere, and then he says, “What does _at a minimum_ mean?”

“Oh.” Quentin swallows. “I mean I know you don’t, like, date, really— so I figured— but if you, um. If that’s— Jesus, I’m making no fucking sense. Sorry. God.”

“Deep breaths, Quentin. I’m not worth hyperventilating over.”

_You absolutely are_ , Quentin doesn’t say. “Yeah, uh. Basically, um.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, his face screwed up. “So the bottom line I guess is that if we can be friends and fuck that’s great, and if we could— be more, like boyfriends, I guess, that would be even better. And if none of that works then I just.” God, he can _not_ tear up right now, that is _not_ acceptable, get it together, face. “I’d rather be your friend.”

On the other end of the phone, Eliot inhales deeply, sighs it out. Quentin can’t tell if it’s— relief, or disappointment, or _what_ , and his brain is working a mile a minute to figure out if he can backtrack, somehow, plausibly take back… everything he’s said in the last ten minutes and also all the texts he sent and the dick pic and all of it. It’s a challenge, certainly, but maybe he can claim he was possessed? Or something? By like, what, a super horny ghost—?

But then Eliot says, “I agree. With all of that. I want to be your friend. You’re— important to me, as well. But if something more serious is on the table— if you’re open to that—”

“Yes, absolutely,” Quentin says frantically. “Yes. Yes.”

Eliot laughs. “Okay, message received. Since you are _definitely_ open to that, then that’s what I’d prefer too.”

“Oh,” Quentin breathes. “Oh. I mean— good. _Good_. Great. So uh, we’re— boyfriends?”

“Well, yes, but _declaring_ it like that is extremely seventh grade.” Quentin can almost see Eliot’s face scrunching up with distaste, and he bites his lip to keep from giggling. “When you get back here, I’ll take you out to dinner, make you breakfast in the morning, you can steal one of my cardigans to wear around the Cottage. Establish that we're an item like adults.”

"Okay." Quentin feels _giddy_ , like his chest is full of helium, like he could fly circles around the room. "That sounds— god, that sounds wonderful."

“I'm glad you think so too." Eliot's voice is soft, sincere. It makes Quentin's breath catch in his throat. Then his tone dips deep and smooth again as he says, "You know, it’s very inconsiderate of you to have started this conversation over the phone while we’re hundreds of miles away from each other."

"Was it?" 

"Oh yes. Clever, certainly, but inconsiderate." A pause, probably just for drama. Quentin waits impatiently. "If we were having this talk in person, I'd least have the option of sucking your cock to avoid talking about my feelings.”

Quentin is hard basically instantly. Jesus. “Is that, uh,” he manages, “is that one of the things you want to do to me you couldn’t write out? In your texts?”

“It’s a whole subcategory of the things I want to do to you,” Eliot purrs. “I can’t wait to get you in my mouth, figure out all the little tricks that will make you fall apart for me.”

“I don’t think it’s gonna take any like— particularly special tricks.” Quentin swallows hard, screws his eyes shut to push through his anxiety. “I’m like, two thirds of the way through falling apart for you right now.”

“Oh yeah? Are you touching yourself?”

“I haven’t been, but uh.” Quentin shifts on the bed, stares down at the tent in the front of his gym shorts. “I definitely could.”

“Do it,” Eliot says, and the hunger in his voice makes Quentin grab for his dick before he’s even really processed the words. “Stroke that pretty cock for me. God, when I saw that picture… you’re fucking gorgeous, Q.”

Quentin laughs breathlessly, palming his cock through his shorts. “ _I’m_ fucking gorgeous? You’ve like— no, I won’t even ask that, I _know_ you’ve looked at yourself. _You’re_ the gorgeous one.”

“We can both be gorgeous,” Eliot says. There’s a hitch in his breathing, a soft sigh.

“Are you—?” Quentin asks, his voice coming out in a whisper.

Eliot makes a low, pleased noise, then asks innocently, “Am I what?”

Oh, okay. So they’re playing it like that, huh? “Touching yourself. Stroking your huge d-dick.” God, just fucking _saying_ it is making Quentin ache. He quickly switches the phone to speaker, shoves his shorts off before he gets a wet spot on the front.

“I am. I’m in my room, naked on my bed. Imagining you’re in it with me.” Eliot laughs, although it turns into a gasp halfway through. “I imagine that on a very regular basis.”

Quentin shivers as he wraps his fingers around his cock, starts to stroke. “What am I, uh— what am I doing? When you imagine it?”

“All sorts of things,” Eliot answers, sounding strangely hesitant. “We don’t have to jump into the deep end of my fantasies right away. We can start small until you figure out what you like.”

Quentin can’t help grinning. “Oh yeah, you wanted to be my gay awakening, right? I hate to break it to you, but David Bowie in _Labyrinth_ kinda beat you to it.”

“What?”

“I’m not— I mean, I kinda. Play on everyone’s team. In theory.” Eliot is silent except for his soft breathing. “So you’re not gonna scare me off with your fantasies. Whatever you’ve thought of, I’ve probably thought about too.”

“Well.” Eliot seems to have recovered some of his poise. “In that case, I imagine I’m fucking you.” Quentin grunts, his dick jumping in his fist. “You like that? Has anyone ever done it to you before?”

“Not, um— not really. I have, uh, a toy. That I use— sometimes.”

“Quentin, you dirty boy.” Eliot’s ruthlessly lascivious tone makes Quentin moan and stroke himself a little faster. “Is it as big as me?”

“Not even close,” Quentin laughs, breathless.

“Then I’ll have to take my time with you. Maybe I’ll get started while I’m sucking your cock — brush my fingers further down, rub over your hole and see what kind of noises I can tease out of you.” 

Quentin lets out a whine just thinking about it, feels his face flush bright red when Eliot laughs on the other end of the line. “That’s fucking hot,” Eliot says, before Quentin even has a chance to feel embarrassed. “I’d definitely do that for a while, then, get to know your body, what you like.”

“Eliot, I’m so fucking hard already,” Quentin gasps.

“In the fantasy, or real life?”

“Both.” Quentin moans, fisting his cock, trying to make himself go slow. “You should— you should put your fingers in me, I want them—”

“Fingers? Not my tongue?”

“Jesus _fuck_.” Quentin grips tight at the base of his cock, his chest heaving. “Not if you want to fuck me.”

“You gonna shoot off too fast if I eat you out?”

“ _Yes_ , Eliot, Jesus—”

“That could be fun, though—”

“No,” Quentin gasps, immersed in the fantasy. “I want your cock in me, don’t you _dare_ get me off before you do that.”

Eliot moans abruptly. “Fuck. God. Okay. So I’d fuck you on my fingers. Help you start to open up, relax into it.”

“I’m so ready for you.” Quentin shudders, goes back to stroking himself as slowly as he can stand it. “Your hands are so fucking big.”

“You noticed that, did you?”

“How the fuck could I _not_? The way they _move_ when you cast, or just— talk, or make drinks, or anything. I don’t know how you haven’t caught me staring.”

“I have once or twice,” Eliot breathes. “I always told myself it was nothing. I figured, he’s a nerd, he just wants to improve his hand positions.”

“You’re not wrong, but mostly I was— god, thinking about you putting your hands all over me, how much of me you could touch at once. How good it would feel if you jerked me off.”

Eliot makes a sound that’s nearly a growl, sending electric shivers all across Quentin’s skin. “It’s going to feel amazing, when I do. But I’m trying not to get you off too fast, here, so I’d just slide my fingers inside you instead, get you all slicked up and stretched out for me.”

Quentin manages to stop jerking off for just a second so he can tut through a quick spell that draws moisture from the air, coating his palm with slippery fluid. When he goes back to it, he moans loudly, hears an answering moan from Eliot. “Then what?”

“Patience, Q. It’ll take more than thirty seconds for you to be ready to take me.” 

“We’re just talking about it, though, like— we can fast forward, right?”

“Do you want to?” Eliot’s voice is velvet, dark chocolate, pure sex. “Or do you want to think a little more about how it’s going to feel with my fingers deep in you, pushing in and out— so much better than your toy, because they’re body temperature, and they can _bend_ —”

“Fuck me,” Quentin groans. His legs have splayed out, knees bent, and if he closes his eyes he can picture it, Eliot grinning up at him from between his thighs, one huge hand working agonizingly slowly. “Fuck, Eliot, fuck me, _please_ fuck me—”

Eliot lets out a visceral grunt. “Jesus, it didn’t take any time at all to get you begging, did it?”

“Is that what you want?” Quentin’s hand is flying over his cock, now, but the pleasure he’s getting from it seems almost secondary to how fucking turned on he is listening to Eliot. “I’ll fucking beg. Or I’ll, I’ll suck your cock first, if you want, I just want it inside me somehow.”

“I want to kiss you,” Eliot moans, breathy. “God, Q, I want your mouth on mine, I want to kiss you for _hours_.”

“I—” Quentin is overwhelmed with emotion, desire cascading through him, hot and tingling. “I want that too, god.” His chest feels tight, sweat prickles on his forehead.

“And then while I’m kissing you, I’ll move over you.” Quentin whimpers in anticipation. “Slide into you nice and slow, kiss you the whole time, make sure you stay feeling good while I get so deep inside you.”

“Eliot, _fuck_.” Quentin’s hips are rolling against the bed, imagining it, the smooth motion of Eliot fucking into him. He tries to picture what Eliot’s face would look like, can’t quite put together the expression he’d have. He’s never— he’s never _seen_ Eliot like that, consumed with pleasure, panting as he buries his thick cock in someone’s body. “What, how would it feel? For you? Would it be good?”

“ _So_ fucking good, baby, that beautiful body of yours squeezing around me so tight.”

“I would, ah, I’d wrap my legs around you.” Quentin pulls his knees up, crossing his ankles in midair. “H-hold you in me. Kiss you.”

“I’d never want to leave,” Eliot breathes. “Fuck, I can— just thinking about it, I’m so hard for you—”

“El, oh— Eliot—” Quentin’s hips jerk, picturing Eliot’s huge cock, hard for _him_ , sliding through his huge fist, and all of a sudden the tension that’s been building inside him reaches a breaking point. “ _Oh fuck_ —”

“Gonna come for me, Q?” Eliot asks, and Quentin cries out, pleasure hitting him sharp and unbearable as he rushes headlong over the edge, spilling hot streaks of white over his belly and chest. “ _God_ I wish I could see you, watch that pretty cock blow its load everywhere.”

“Everywhere,” Quentin repeats breathlessly, the last shudders still rocking through him. “I came _everywhere_ for you, El, wish you could— see how fucking good you made me feel—”

“I can hear it,” Eliot says, and his voice is choked, tense. “Tell me.”

“It’s all over my stomach— I was thinking about you jerking off for me, how hard you must be, how thick and hard you’ll feel inside me when you fuck me, and just, I couldn’t hold it, it was too good—”

“Fuck,” Eliot grits out, “Oh— yes fuck _Quentin oh_ —” He finishes on a deep, satisfied moan, gasping for breath. Quentin makes a desperate noise, imagining the way his chest must be heaving, his pale skin flushed pink under his dark hair, come dripping over his long fingers, down the thick line of his cock. “Jesus. Fuck. I came so fucking hard.”

Quentin moans, a thread of desire running through him even though his legs feel like jelly. “Is that— is it always going to be like that?”

“Like what?”

“That hot. That good.”

“Oh, was it good?” Eliot’s apparently recovered enough to tease already. Quentin imagines pulling the pillow from under his head, smacking him with it. Or grabbing him by the nape of the neck, kissing the shit-eating grin off his face. He could do that, now. He could _do_ that. “Realistically… not always. Everyone has off days, even me. But I will do my absolute best for you.”

“Show me the goddamn stars?” Quentin grins at the embarrassed noise Eliot makes. “I believe you. I mean. If you can get me off like that from across the country, I think I might, like, spontaneously combust when we actually have sex in person.”

“Tomorrow night,” Eliot says firmly, like a promise. “Or tomorrow afternoon and then tomorrow night. And the following morning.”

“Deal.” Quentin scratches at his belly, then remembers he really did come _everywhere_. “I should, uh. Probably take another shower.”

“Stroud's Eraser is gentle enough on skin to use for basic clean-up. But shower if you want to. I’ll amuse myself thinking about you all wet and sudsy.”

Quentin’s breath catches a little in his throat. “Yeah. Uh. Please do.”

“You can hardly stop me. Oh, before you go: steak or seafood?”

“Uh, seafood? Generally? Why?”

“So I can wine and dine you tomorrow in between bouts of fucking you silly.”

God, that sounds— fucking spectacular. “Well in that case, maybe steak, since I just spent three days eating fish for every meal — but you don't have to, you can just, whatever you want is good too. I'll still, I mean—"

"None of that.” Eliot’s stern tone is _doing things_ to Quentin’s heart. And his dick. “You’re going to let me romance you the way you deserve, Quentin Coldwater, and you’re going to like it.”

“Yeah,” Quentin says faintly. “I definitely am.”

Mercifully, Eliot just tells him again to go clean up and ends the call, avoiding the _you hang up! no_ you _hang up!_ cycle Quentin’s worried they might fall into. He wipes down and tries to immerse himself in reading, but his thoughts keep drifting — not even in a sexy direction, always, but just thinking about— Eliot saying, _something more serious_. Eliot wanting to _romance_ him, kiss him for _hours_. The minutes tick by agonizingly slowly, and there are so many of them between now and the time he can get what he wants.

His dad comes back a while later, gushing about the Boeing 247D and the Fairchild 24W. Quentin can’t understand half of it, but he’s happy for the distraction. 

Then as they’re heading out for dinner, his dad says casually, “So, what have you been up to? You get things all worked out with Eliot?”

Quentin tries to will himself not to blush too much. As usual, it doesn’t work. “Um. Yeah, uh, we did.”

His dad isn’t looking at his red face, though, too absorbed in figuring out which pocket he put the car keys in. “That’s good. Always nice to be back on good terms with a friend.”

“Yeah.” Quentin takes a deep breath, his heart cartwheeling in his chest. “Um. Boyfriend. Actually.”

His dad looks at him, raises his eyebrows. “Well all right, then,” he says, sounding amused. “Boyfriend. Good for you, Curly Q.”

Quentin smiles so big his cheeks hurt. “Yeah. I think it really will be.”


End file.
